


A Poem from the Sky

by FantasticHobo



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Bad Poetry, Denathrius (mentioned), Dredgers doin dredger things, Ember Court, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gothic Romance, I've been reading a lot of gothic lit, Love Letters, Maw Walkers, Maybe the poetry is okay, Mediocre poetry?, Oh yeah Gubbins, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Renathal works hard and needs a break, Renathal/Theotar (hinted at), Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29987736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasticHobo/pseuds/FantasticHobo
Summary: Astarys paced.  Read it again.  Fell back against her bed with her arms outstretched, her face burning and her heart feeling as if it were thrumming hard enough to burst from her chest.She alternated very quickly between elation and terror.He had, somehow, come into possession of her poem.  Her complete and shameless confession of adoration for him.  That thought alone made Asta feel dizzy.
Relationships: Renathal (Warcraft)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. Pages

It wasn’t the first time Astarys’ quill had gotten her into trouble, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

The little Sin’dorei had carried her messenger bag full of parchments and pens and random books and scrolls that inspired her up to the top of the Ember Court tower. She loved sitting up there, as high as she could climb, and watching the stone fiends fly back and forth between the parapets. From so high up, the dredgers working in the ruins below looked like little ants, and even the giant named Boot could have fit in the palm of Asta’s hand. Aside from the occasional peal of wind from Revendreth’s outer reaches, the nooks of the tower provided many quiet, relaxing spots.

She had needed the quiet -- desperately needed to write down the tangles of emotion that had so often harried her ever since arriving in this strange land. Revendreth alone would’ve been enough to give her plenty of inspiration for all her shadowy poems and gothic fairy tales. But to add him into it all… well, he was too much. Seeing him every day was too much. Talking to him every day: too much. 

Everything having to do with him was simply too much.

It made Astarys feel unpleasantly lightheaded, ridiculous and nervous. She hated nervous.

But she had been forced to admit to herself over the years that unrequited emotions were sort of her thing. She’d had many crushes on noblemen and traders and warriors and poets in her day, and almost all of them had gone unmentioned; never to know what secret, sometimes-tawdry roles they played in her active imagination. She’d had actual trysts, too, but they had always been initiated by the other party. Astarys was not good at admitting out loud her feelings about what lunch had been like, let alone her yearnings for another person.

She was, however, quite good at writing those emotions out.

Sometimes (oftentimes) she burned the pages of poetry and confessions of love as a way to move on with her life. It also kept her anxieties about someone discovering her heartfelt prose to a minimum.

As she nestled herself into a crevice of broken stone atop the tower that day, Asta realized with growing worry that her latest obsession over the object of her silent, inkstained affection was getting a bit out of hand. She had so many pages of bad poems and silly little drawings, romanticized conversations they might have with one another, descriptions of what his hands might feel like on hers, of what his lips might taste like. The pleasant what-ifs, the lingering daydreams that made Astarys feel as if her head were trapped in a constant cloud. She hated it, yes… but she also loved it.

Pining after someone was familiar.

But over the last few days, the warmth of her infatuation had turned almost scalding. It was difficult for her to concentrate in the meetings she attended with the Council, and even more difficult still to actually leave the premises of Sinfall to perform her job as a Maw Walker. (One of the more unpleasant facts about being a Maw Walker: one actually had to go to the Maw. Dreadful.) Astarys felt the urge to linger after their meetings just to speak with him, to feel his warm amber eyes on her and see the corners of his lips turn up in a smile.

He was the Prince. The most important of the Venthyr, now that their twisted Sire was locked away. And she was a mortal, a rather nondescript and far-too-shy one at that.

Not to mention the obvious differences in their size… and did Venthyr even…

Her mind immediately slipped into the shadowy but delicious line of thought she’d been trying to hold back all day. There was no stopping it; this was a bad one, this infatuation, and as Astarys allowed herself to fantasize about the Prince leading her to a dark, secluded place and lifting her to him with his much-larger hands, she felt as if she’d actually turned her fire magic onto herself.

Gods, but she wanted him.

A dusty, cold wind brought her back to herself slightly. Astarys hunkered down a bit and withdrew a stack of her most recent writings, all of them drawings or Revendreth-inspired bits of poetry. The longest of them, the one she’d eventually be pained to burn the most, was a poem of confession. She’d been working on it for days, and today… maybe today she could finish it.

And then what?

Sighing, she admitted to herself that she didn’t know. But she was still stubborn enough to pull out her favorite quill and begin to compose a few more lines.

_“Though mystery and pointed sin I’ve found  
In every corner, dread and sadness bent  
No twisted ghost or frothing, snarl-fanged hound  
Would injure me as a Prince’s silence rent…_

_How I long to break this single-sided spell  
How I long to spill my blood, my lust, my yearning  
My love, my need -- all too great yet just a shell  
My very skin for you is burning.”_

_“It’s terrible,”_ Asta thought to herself, but the act of writing was still a much-needed balm on her heart, and her own harsh criticism caused her to laugh. She lowered her quill toward its inkwell and was just leaning back to pen her next line, when --

The wind whipped up, striking her with a force that brought a gasp from her lips -- and then a cry of shock as her parchments were ripped from her fingers and sent spinning over the edge of the tower, dipping and fluttering in the chaos like embers of white fire.

“OH!” Asta exclaimed, struggling to her feet and reaching helplessly toward the pages. The sight of them drifting downward toward the Ember Court froze her in place -- suddenly her talented imagination was filling in all the details of what was surely about to happen to her. Someone would find them and her obsession would be the hot gossip of the court. Maybe she’d scrawled her name on one, or someone might recognize her penmanship, or, or, or, there were a hundred million different ways this was about to ruin her, and oh gods, she was going to have to leave Revendreth, it was time to choose a different covenant --

“Get ahold of yourself!” she hissed, and already she was flinging her bag across her chest and hurrying down the broken steps of the tower. The Ember Court wasn’t for another few hours and she was fairly sure dredgers couldn’t read. “Everything will be fine.”

Still, though, she felt a little like throwing up.

“How many were there? How many did I lose?”

Two she managed to find easily -- one was still being whipped around by wind eddies at the tower’s base, and the other had been caught by a spiky bush. She shoved them unceremoniously back into her bag and continued the hunt.

One she found floating in the muck pool -- it was more muck than paper anymore, and the ink was no longer legible. One of her earliest journal entries, she thought. Asta let the muck keep it.

One had plastered itself to the back of Boot’s giant leg, and Astarys had to apologize profusely as she peeled it free, shoving it into the sack with the others. The giant had no idea it had even been there, or what the tiny elf-creature was apologizing for.

One fluttered over a brazier of lit candles, caught on fire and half of it burned. She snagged the remaining half, finding with no lack of bemusement that she’d saved the half of her sketch page with the Prince’s face on it. Adding it to the other now-crunched rescues, she moved on.

And the last two she had to chase across the pathways of the Ember Court. The wind seemed to be taunting her, and Astarys found herself laughing wildly as she huffed her way up the slight incline to the shady ruins of Theotar’s usual spot. One paper caught on a rock and she gave a cry of victory as she snagged it, then darted forward to crunch the other one to the ground beneath her shoe. “Ha HA, caught you! I win!”

Asta folded down the flap of her satchel and heaved a sigh. Her heart was pounding like a drum in Orgrimmar, and her pent-up emotions finally bubbled to the surface as she began to laugh, allowing waves of relief to wash over her.

After a long moment she forced herself back to some semblance of composure. The elf turned in a slow circle, looking around to make sure none of her errant papers had been missed, and saw no more of them. “Crisis averted,” Astarys murmured. “I think that’s enough drama for today.”

What she hadn’t seen -- couldn’t have seen -- was Gubbins, who had waddled behind a stack of crates with Astarys’ poem in his hands. He looked bewildered as he rotated it back and forth, puzzling over the scribbles. She had been right -- dredgers can’t read. Or at least, this one couldn’t.

But Gubbins had a very close friend who could read very well, and he couldn’t wait for Theotar to tell him what his mysterious letter from the sky said.

\-----------

About the same time Gubbins was handing the sky-letter over to a bemused Theotar, a tired Astarys was sitting down at the small desk in her Sinfall quarters and opening her satchel… withdrawing the very-wrinkled pages and recounting them in her head to ensure they were all present.

Then a realization, creeping with slow tendrils of dread:

“The poem… _where is the damned poem?!”_


	2. Choice

Theotar read the poem, then he read it again. Then he read it a third time, pacing as he did so.

“Whass it say?” Gubbins asked, following behind his taller friend. “Issit bad? Are dem light-demons comin’ back fer us? Ain’t a declaration ’ah war, issit?”

“No, no!” Theotar stopped quick enough that the dredger bumped into him and stumbled back. The Mad Duke’s face was lit up in a grin. “It is something much better! So intriguing! It seems to be a love letter for our dear Prince!”

Gubbins’ nose wrinkled up. That didn’t sound interesting to him at all.

“I though’ I’d been chosen by some sky-bein’ or somethin’,” he muttered dejectedly. “Right disappointin’, dat is.”

“But this is exciting! Gubbins, you must tell me… where exactly did you find this?”

“Jus’ in yer usual spot, Theo, next ta all dem supplies fer th’ next Court. Saw it flutter down out da sky and get stuck ta some barrel.”

Theotar’s brow furrowed. “Was there anyone else around at the time? Anyone at all?”

Gubbins made a long, low _“hnnnnn”_ sound that Theotar knew was common whenever he had to think about something really hard. “Nnnnn… nope.”

Theotar frowned.

“‘Cept dat nervous-lookin’ girlie in th’ dress, she was chasin’ dem papers aroun’ like ah right crazy git--”

Theotar leaned down close to Gubbins. “Which girl? WAIT! Tell me what color she wore -- NO! Tell me what her hair looked like --”

“Dat Maw Walker wit’ da red dress an’ white hair. Little nervous ting. Real funny ta watch her stompin’ on dem papers… oy! You mean ta tell me dis ain’t a letter from da sky at all --”

“The elf!” Theotar shot back to his feet with a look of triumph on his face. “Ahh Gubbins, you brilliant creature!”

The Mad Duke read through the poem one more time, indulging himself. He already knew he had a difficult choice to make -- should he do the truly right thing and give the poem back to its owner, or should he deliver it to its intended recipient?

Theotar was far from cruel. He had no desire to embarrass anyone, particularly a shy mortal who hadn’t asked for her romantic notions to be aired -- literally -- to all of Revendreth.

But he also knew how much the Prince loved receiving letters.

And a letter of impassioned confession? That was the _best_ sort of letter. It seemed cruel of him to withhold it from his closest, oldest friend and confidant. Particularly when Renathal had been under so much stress. Theotar knew the responsibilities of Sinfall and the failings of his Sire weighed heavily on the Prince. It was a mantle he’d never asked for, but he bore its weight with all the silent grace he could muster.

Lately Renathal’s eyes had been tired and sad, lacking the spark of passion that Theotar remembered so fondly from better days. Only during the Ember Courts, when Renathal was able to almost lose himself in Revendreth’s formalities, did he seem to regain some sense of joy. Some Venthyr had wondered why the Prince had been so eager to establish his own Court in Sinfall, but Theotar had never questioned it. “He needs that,” he had explained easily to the others. “He needs to create some reason to celebrate.”

He knew the Prince needed this too -- to be reminded of the sweet nature of courtship, or at the very least how easy to love he was. Not only to his fellow Venthyr, but to the mortals who had pledged themselves to him as well.

“I’m sorry, miss elf,” Theotar murmured to himself as he rolled up the poem. “I hope you’ll forgive me. But this is simply too good not to share!”

\-----------

Astarys had swept the grounds of the Court again as soon as she realized the poem was missing. Of course her search was fruitless, and as more dredgers with decorations and cleaning supplies had begun to take over the area, Asta resigned herself to the fact that the poem was simply gone.

The odds of someone finding it were slim, she told herself. More likely the wind had carried it far away, into another muck pool or beyond the boundaries of Revendreth itself -- perhaps even into the swirling vortexes of the Maw, never to be seen again.

Still, Asta couldn’t help but feel little pangs of nervousness in her stomach as she headed back to her quarters to freshen up for the Court. Despite her worries, she couldn’t bring herself to pass on the chance to mingle with some of the interesting denizens of the Shadowlands. Or, of course, to miss an opportunity to stand in the Prince’s presence.

\----------

As Renathal and Theotar reached the top of the Sinfall steps, the Mad Duke was pleased to see that the Prince’s mood already seemed improved with the Ember Court drawing near. “I am so looking forward to seeing our friends from Bastion again,” Renathal said, pausing for a moment as he allowed Theotar to pop up his parasol. “Do you think there will be cake?”

“Oh yes, Sika seemed to love it last time. I believe I saw Stefan with one of those adorable baking Stewards.”

“Ah, wonderful. Well my dear friend, thank you for the updates on the anima missions. Is there anything else I need to know before the Court begins?”

Theotar’s face lit up in a grin, the sort of grin that Renathal immediately recognized as mischievous. His friend tugged the rolled but slightly wrinkled parchment from one side of his pants and handed it over, still smiling from ear to ear. “Gubbins found this today,” the Duke explained. “And it seemed to be for you, so I thought it only proper that it should find its way to your hands.”

“What…” the Prince began, and he unfurled and read. Theotar was all too pleased to see Renathal’s eyes widen a bit and a hint of color rise to his cheeks.

_  
“For Renathal --_

_I have no claim to you, no ownership  
Nor would I wish to see you bound  
By those who’d steal your heart or lip  
Or sully hallowed ground_

_But I admit I come before you  
With naught but lover’s plea  
Helpless am I but to adore you  
Such warmth your sight brings me_

_Such words I write here, knowing  
I take my longings to the grave  
So high above me, status showing  
And such simple speech my voice would lave_

_Still I yearn, so beautiful and dark  
Words fail, yet still I reach  
Like hopeful sparrow, singing lark  
Some relentless secret might beseech_

_A longing look from my gaze to yours  
If I had courage, words would matter not  
And I would spend all countless hours  
Within those arms my heart has sought_

_Though mystery and pointed sin I’ve found  
In every corner, dread and sadness bent  
No twisted ghost or frothing, snarl-fanged hound  
Would injure me as a Prince’s silence rent…_

_How I long to break this single-sided spell  
How I long to spill my blood, my lust, my yearning  
My love, my need -- all too great yet just a shell  
My very skin for you is burning.”_

Upon reaching the end, the Prince seemed almost at a loss. “It’s unsigned. Theotar, who is it from? You said Gubbins found it?”

“He did, but I was able to coax just enough information from him that I believe I know the author.” Theotar put his free hand against Renathal’s arm, turning him gently so the two of them were facing the Sinfall tower. “Do you see the elf there, the one in the red robes?”

Renathal’s eyes widened again. “Astarys.”

“Oh, you know her?”

“Of course, I know all of the Maw Walkers…” The Prince’s voice trailed off. He was staring at the elven woman now and Theotar had to bite his lower lip almost savagely to keep himself from giggling outright. This, it seemed, had been a good idea after all.

“I think she’s very shy,” Theotar continued, “and she lost the poem by accident. But her feelings seem so deep, so sincere. Perhaps you could write back…?”

Renathal turned his canny gaze onto his friend. “You’ve done this entirely on purpose.”

“Receiving the poem was completely accidental! ...but giving it to you, yes.” Theotar tilted his head. Renathal would later swear the Duke had been almost fluttering his eyes at him. “But it is not an unpleasant feeling, is it? To be pursued?”

Renathal’s non-answer was answer enough. He scanned the poem once more before rolling it up again reverently and sliding it into a hidden pocket of his coat.

“It would be uncouth of me not to provide a reply. But I’m afraid it shall have to wait. In the meantime, we have a Court to open.”


	3. Reply

The Ember Court had gone swimmingly, even though there had been too many loose animals and a bit of a food fight. And as Renathal enjoyed stoking his own curiosity from time to time, he made sure that as the festivities were winding down, he ended up standing next to the elven woman. He was as cautious as he was curious; perhaps speaking with her could confirm the Prince’s suspicions as to the poem’s authorship.

“Miss Sunsworn, how did you enjoy the Court?” he asked. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, Renathal was startled by the momentary look of surprised adoration he saw there. But almost just as quickly she caught herself, lowering her eyes and turning her head to hide the color that had risen to her cheeks.

“It was very nice, as it always is,” the elf managed. “I enjoyed seeing Sika again. The Stewards are such good company.” She looked at the Prince sidelong. “And please, it’s Astarys.”

“Astarys, then,” Renathal mused, his voice lowering an octave. “They say that those among us who speak the least are sometimes overlooked. I hope to not make such an error with you. I am always glad to see you at Court… and at our meetings.”

Astarys felt her blush growing out of control -- gods, but her pale skin had always been a curse, a veritable blueprint to her every emotion -- and she turned red from her toes to the very tips of her long ears. Renathal didn’t seem upset by this. If anything, the smile he gave her was warm and somehow intimate.

As he moved into the crowd again to mingle, Astarys felt consumed by the butterflies swarming in her stomach and the Prince felt confident that he had his answer.

Never mind her fierce blushing. The ink stains on her fingers were a dead giveaway.

\---------

Upon retiring for the evening, Astarys tried in vain to write. But her emotions felt raw and dangerous now, everything too close to the surface and too unpredictable for her to channel into any sort of recognizable prose. It hadn’t been the first time the Prince had spoken with her, of course. But it had been the first time he had addressed her so informally, and the first time his tone had carried a hint of something more than polite acknowledgement.

Just recalling the way he’d said her name in his deep, whispery voice sent shivers running up and down Asta’s spine.

Unable to stick two words together to form any sort of coherent thought, the elf resigned herself to trying to sleep. It took some time before her mind had finally spun itself to the point of exhaustion, but when sleep finally found her, her dreams were warm and lusty and filled with the rich sound of him saying her name over and over and over.

\----------

When she woke and climbed out of bed, she immediately noticed the envelope on the floor next to her door, but it took her a full minute of staring at it before she had the courage to pick it up. Already she was cautioning herself that it was likely a thank-you note from Sika or a guild missive. But when she saw her name penned in blood red ink along the front in a flowing cursive script and her fingers ran along the deep green wax seal on the back -- pressed with the Venthyr sigil -- Astarys felt her heart leap into her throat and she retrieved the letter opener from her pack with shaking hands.

Withdrawing the letter, she took a breath and read:

_A ~_

_It is my most sincere hope  
This note will not misguide or frighten,  
But rather put at ease your restless thoughts  
And perhaps enlighten  
You to my sense of duty and withdrawn station.  
I have not shared my feelings longer still  
And emotion feels at times, an obligation  
Insisted on to those we serve, but not to I.  
In contemplation, I find myself bereft  
Of that which once made my spirit fly;  
Such words as those that came to me on air,  
Delivered with breeze and dredger’s curiosity,  
Delivered to me with all sincerity lain bare.  
What quiet longing and worship found!  
Awe and humility it brought  
A wondered sigh, a fleeting sound  
That I should be the object of such divine affections._

_Could I return such strength of heart?  
Of mortal tendencies,  
Of expression of both need and art?_

_I feel I have not mortal power beneath my skin  
No raging blood, but anima sustains me.  
And yet I feel compelled to look farther in.  
There is something present there in deepest reach  
Almost forgotten, yet bones still remain  
Perhaps a lesson the patient one may teach._

_~ R_

Astarys paced. Read it again. Fell back against her bed with her arms outstretched, her face burning and her heart feeling as if it were thrumming hard enough to burst from her chest.

She alternated very quickly between elation and terror.

He had, somehow, come into possession of her poem. Her complete and shameless confession of adoration for him. That thought alone made Asta feel dizzy. “Delivered with breeze and dredger’s curiosity.” Perhaps she had been wrong, perhaps dredgers could read after all?

But… if he had hated it, surely, he would not have written back at all. The Prince didn’t seem the type to be cruel. If he’d been insulted or even merely bored by it, he wouldn’t have responded to shoddy prose with prose of his own, his innermost thoughts provided to her freely.

So he felt something, then? Something for her?

She read his last sentences again.

Maybe not yet, but…


	4. Wonderings

Astarys had to see to her missions for the day, and as she had feared they might, they led her away from Revendreth and into the strange, fleshy world of Maldraxxus. After hunting through a lot of slimes and setting fire to too many constructs, she returned to Sinfall a sweaty, tired mess. The day had already gotten long and though she saw the Prince at a distance, he was surrounded by Maw Walkers eager to provide their own daily reports.

After a bath and a bit of dinner, she again took out his letter. Already she nearly had it memorized, and her finger fondly traced the curves of his orderly penmanship.

When the moment inevitably came when they were face-to-face once more, what would she even say?

It would be easier, she thought, to pen him a reply. She could convey on paper her emotions better than she ever would in person.

This time when she pulled out her paper and quill, Asta was pleased that the words began to pour from her like water from a clear Pandaren river.

_R ~_

_To feel your letter in my hands  
Was the last thing I’d expected.  
I’d never meant a gesture so grand  
As to see what change affected_

_You, my favorite and yet my master.  
Would I have written thus, or would I have guessed  
That such honesty might end in disaster?  
But your gentle words leave my heart impressed._

_If you seek to humor me  
To find the cautious road to withdraw  
You’ll find my spirit is no enemy,  
Fear from me no angered fang or claw._

_Or if you do -- and at this thought my heart sings --  
Mean to learn something more of mortal ways,  
I offer myself as guide and sheltering wing  
To perhaps ease your burdens with a softer gaze._

_To bring you peace of mind and heart  
Would be my own pleasure, service, and delight.  
I feel we lack only now, a place to start  
And I would await your answer through all my sleepless nights._

_~ A_

Only after she had rolled the letter and tied it with a ribbon did she realize she was unsure of how to have it delivered to him. Simply walking up and handing it to the Prince seemed rather uninspired. ...She also wasn’t sure she could do that without shrieking and running away at the end.

Then Asta thought of the stone fiends. A smile crept over her face, and she made her way up to the outer reaches of Sinfall to find one.

\----------

Receiving a letter in reply stirred a feeling of warmth in Renathal that he’d long forgotten could exist. It was so simple a gesture, yet it somehow restored him after his long day, and seemed to bring him a peace that had so often been out of his reach.

And now it had been laid out between them, hadn’t it? He had given the whole situation considerable thought before he’d written back to the elven woman; she was a mortal, and he was something else entirely. Some of the Maw Walkers referred to the Venthyr as deities, but the Prince found such stylings to be entirely inaccurate. If ever there had been a god in Revendreth, it had been Denathrius. Only he had created the Venthyr, placed the very land beneath their feet and chosen the heavy burdens of judgement they should bear.

Still. She was a mortal, he was… not. 

_“Is that the only argument you can find to allay happiness?”_ Renathal asked himself sharply. _“Because it’s not a particularly good one.”_

They were both bound by the same tenants of sin -- not to fall to a lust perverse, and not to seek to harm one another intentionally.

Even their great difference of size should not be an issue. With the medallion he possessed, Renathal could make himself smaller if he needed to. Or there were various concoctions to make one larger, if Astarys so preferred.

The Prince found his mind wandering as to why they might need their sizes changed and he was surprised by the sudden pull of want he felt; it was a lost part of his psyche waking up, and he found that he had missed it. To desire and to be desired. Among the simplest, basest of needs, yet one of the first to be discarded when change and chaos had come along.

Should he be allowing himself such pleasures when the Shadowlands still faced so much danger?

He could almost hear Theotar’s little scoff of dismissal to such a question. _“I seem to recall persuading you -- very long ago, but not so much like forever -- that you needed to do what brought you happiness, my dear friend. Or WHO brought you happiness. Yes?”_

Renathal smiled. Theotar, his constant companion, had brought him much happiness once upon a time -- and he still did, even though the way of it had changed. They had existed together through so much. Time, in its stubborn and infinite way, had dulled the Prince’s memory of feeling.

Had Theotar forgotten that, too? Or had the Duke simply been waiting on him to wake up?

Renathal shook his head, his eyes falling again to the letter on his desk. For now, he was content to feel a spark of something -- not yet a full lick of flame, but still such promise -- and he decided to try and channel that into his next composition.

_A ~_

_Forgive my lack of rhythm this evening, but I find my thoughts more suited to a rambling stream of consciousness and less to sounding pretty. You will bear with me, I hope?_

_A close friend once advised me to ‘do what makes you happy,’ and I must admit that, despite not knowing one another particularly well, these letters to and from you are providing me with much happiness. I am blessed with a nearly-endless source of allies, but many fewer friends. And although your poem hadn’t been meant to find its way to me, I am very glad that it did. I would like to know you better… so that I might count you as a friend._

_But that sounds a bit disingenuous, does it not? I know plainly where your feelings stand, but my own ground seems not as steadfast. I should strive to be as honest as you have been, Astarys. Honesty is, after all, a great virtue._

_In all honesty, I should like to take you to dinner -- just the two of us -- and court you properly, as a lady of your beauty and courage deserves. Perhaps I might coax you a bit from your pearlescent shell, and you might share with me more secrets of your heart._

_In two nights’ hence? With your reply, I will send a carriage for you to the top of Sinfall._

_Sincerely,  
~ R_


	5. Courting

The next day:

_R ~_

_I cannot imagine turning down your offer, despite my nerves nearly getting the better of me. Of course I would love to join you for dinner._

_If we are being honest, I feel the traits of beauty and courage have never been particular strong spots of mine, and I would be interested in hearing your justifications. (Does that sound as if I’m fishing for compliments? Such is not my intention.) My original poetry may have left very little unexposed when it comes to my honest feelings about you… though you might be pleased to know that nothing in the Shadowlands has brought me as much joy as hearing my name pronounced by your lips._

_I count the minutes until tomorrow evening._

_~ A_

\-------

And the next:

_A ~_

_For Revendreth, though winds may blow  
And sparks may drift from skies above our Court,  
Beauty often hides in crypts below.  
In the quiet spots, in secret glances and things unsaid,  
The yearning for what once was and what could be  
Courage reaches forward through the dread.  
Neither those fearless nor those fairest of tone  
Are always open in their wisdom -- but Honesty  
In the face of what we stand to lose, its proof will hold the throne._

_~ R_

\-------

Astarys didn’t truly believe that any of it was happening until she reached the top of the Sinfall steps and watched the carriage pull up to where she stood.

Even then, it all felt surreal.

She watched as a dredger opened the door and hopped out, ushering her with a hand toward the carriage proper. “Miss Astarys Sunsworn,” he said with surprisingly adept pronunciation, “if you would please join Prince Renathal at Redelav Tower for drinks an’ dinner.”

Astarys took a breath and lifted her skirts from her boots. She thought for a moment that they certainly were not going to fit through the tiny carriage door -- but thankfully everything did.

There had been no dress code mentioned for their little soiree, but since arriving in Revendreth Asta had secretly admired the fancy gowns, corsets, capes, and tailored suits worn by the Venthyr. If she was ever going to look the part of a noblewoman, now was the best time she could imagine. A few inquiries around Sinfall had brought about a handful of courtiers who were eager to fit the elven woman into full Venthyr regalia.

Once she’d been fitted and frocked and strapped and booted and laced into perfect poise, Astarys had to admit that she felt different in the best way. Beautiful. Confident. So unlike herself that it made the whole scenario feel even more impossible.

But there she was, now seated in the center of the carriage, which shifted and rattled for a moment before the horses stamped their hooves and began to pull away.

They left the protection of the Ember Court and crossed the bridge leading into the Castle District. It would be dangerous here normally, she knew, but the carriages were given a measure of disregard throughout Revendreth. Before long they had swept past Nathria and further up along the winding streets -- up and up and up, until Asta noticed that Redelav Tower had come into view, and her stomach felt as if it did an entire flip in her midsection.

After the carriage had stopped and Asta disembarked, the same dredger was there to lead her on. “Follow me please, jus’ up this hill a bit Miss, I promise it’s not too far.”

The few times she had snuck through Redelav, the place had been bustling with any one of the Countess’ many parties. Now it was empty and strangely quiet. But there were lights ahead, small lanterns strung on cords throughout the trees, and as Astarys crested the hill she saw there were even more strange lights… not from lanterns but instead held within tiny crystal globes, some clear and some red, some magical light and some the soft red glow that had become so familiar to her in the weeks past. Little floating globes of anima.

She was so enthralled with looking around at the decorations that she didn’t notice the Prince until he stepped forward from the shadows and gently cleared his throat.

Though he was still several feet away, Asta realized immediately that Renathal had changed -- he was no longer an imposing figure towering above her, but only a foot or two taller than herself. Her expression must’ve been a combination of surprise and shock, because the Prince couldn’t help but chuckle.

His warm eyes had gathered her full attention and she raised her hand to slip into his as he reached for her. Renathal’s lips pressed against her knuckles in a lingering kiss.

“You questioned my declaration of your beauty, Miss Sunsworn, but I can think of no other word when I look upon you.”

Asta knew she was blushing, but the Prince’s hand felt surprisingly warm against her own and it was the only thing she cared to focus on for the moment. “Please. Astarys. Though… this seems such a formal affair. I will have to keep your title.”

“No. It would please me greatly not to be a prince for the evening. Call me Renathal.”

“Renathal, then.” She lowered her eyes demurely. “Even if you’re not a prince, this still feels like too much trouble you’ve gone through…”

With mirth showing on his face, Renathal turned toward their arranged table, sliding a hand against Asta’s waist as he led her toward a chair. He drew it out for her and waited until she was settled before seating himself. “Hardly, my dear. It is humble compared to our weekly Court, is it not? And despite all the bells and whistles there, I find the Court sorely lacking in one thing… and perhaps I hope to make up for it here.”

“And what is that?”

“Intimacy,” Renathal purred. Astarys felt her skin prickle from the back of her neck all the way to her toes.

“I am being too forward,” he said quickly, and Asta opened her mouth to argue that he certainly was not, and she’d like to hear more on the topic, but a dredger had appeared at the side of the table very suddenly at the slightest wave of Renathal’s hand. “Bring us some wine please, Goulain?” 

Astarys sat back in her seat a bit and tried to compose herself. 

“How is it that you’re… well… smaller?”

Renathal reached into his coat and touched the edges of the large medallion that hung at the center of his chest. Asta could see the purple gem in its center, illuminated even in the dim light. “Though I’m loath to use it often, the Medallion of Dominion does have its benefits. And with all of you Maw Walkers around, it’s not entirely nice to feel as if I’m towering over everyone all the time. Having so many mortals about is giving me a height complex.”

Astarys laughed, which seemed to brighten the Prince’s eyes. “I admit, you make an intimidating figure. That is also to the benefit of Sinfall, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps,” Renathal admitted. “I wouldn’t want to stand before the Winter Queen as this size, at any rate. Even in my taller form I am dwarfed before her. I’m impressed that any Maw Walker manages to hold her attention at all.”

“Ah, well, who am I to concern myself with what the Winter Queen thinks of me? Though as for my Prince -- I’m sorry, as for you, Renathal… I think I do prefer you this way.”

He quirked one eye in a questioning look. “Why is that?”

Astarys gave a little shrug. She heard the playful words loosen themselves from her tongue before she had a chance to rein them back.

“Seems more intimate.”

A look passed between them and for a moment they were caught in each others’ eyes, either unable or unwilling to turn their attention away. The dredger returned with a carefully-balanced tray of wine glasses and bottle; neither Renathal nor Astarys reached for anything, so after an awkward moment the butler slid it all onto the table.

Asta realized as she held his gaze that she no longer felt nervous. Though her entire body still buzzed with a sensation akin to electricity, it was warm and pleasant. 

_“Do you feel this too?”_ she wanted to ask, but Renathal had finally reached for his wine glass; after a moment Astarys did the same.

“What shall we toast to?” he asked her.

“To whatever this is?”

Renathal tilted his head a bit, but nodded. “To friendship, then.”

Astarys felt an unpleasant twinge -- some tight twist of something within her chest. Was that all this was destined to be? But just a moment ago…

She quashed her nagging inner voice and raised her glass to clink against his. “To friendship.”

They drank. It was anima wine and it tasted almost like champagne against her tongue; bubbly, but thicker and headier. 

“Astarys. Would you tell me about the place you’re from? Not Azeroth, but… whatever corner of it you call home. I wish to know more about you.”

Her expression softened again. “I’ll tell you about Silvermoon.”


	6. Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a faithful reader finally gets to the Good Stuff (tm).

Their meal passed too quickly, she thought, though in reality it had been hours. The dredgers were rather slow waiters, but their conversation had more than made up for it. With his eons of courtly practice, Renathal was as skilled at listening as he was at asking the right questions, and the time had floated by with all the ease of sand in an hourglass. At some point he had reached across the table toward her -- or perhaps she had reached toward him, she wasn’t sure -- and his long fingers had folded around her much smaller hand. The wine was drunk and the meal was over, but still they talked.

She had told him of Silvermoon, a little of her peoples’ history, and a lot of her own. Of her late husband -- something she had never expected to tell him -- and of her son. Of wars she had chosen to fight in, and still others she had been forced into. At last Astarys fell silent. It was more talking than she’d done in an age, and now in her usual fretful way, she began to worry that she’d talked too much.

But Renathal seemed unconcerned about the silence. “Shall we have a walk?” he finally asked, and the next few minutes found them strolling up to the parapets surrounding the Tower’s base, their arms linked and walking in slow step with one another. High above them bats circled, dipping in between the myriad of spires within the Castle District, and the clouds provided a gloomy, thick blanket of gray sky. The feeling of disbelief returned to Astarys; surely she was dreaming all of this encounter. It felt too much like a gothic romance come to life.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words surprising herself as much as they did Renathal. “I should have asked more about you, instead of prattling on for hours --”

He was quick to shake his head, cutting her words short. “I would wager that you know quite a lot about me by this point. All of my _family drama_ here in our cloistered little realm. You have succeeded in freeing me from much of it.”

“I had very little to do with it, really. I barely stepped foot in the Castle --”

“You were there, I remember. But that’s not what I was referring to.”

Asta’s brow furrowed. She was about to ask what he meant, but a swirl of red caught her eye. 

They had reached a gap along the rampart’s edge, and here someone had placed a stone bench to provide a secluded place to look out over the northernmost edge of Revendreth. “There was more castle there not so long ago,” Astarys remembered -- before Denathrius had ripped it away as a grand gesture of his power and sent it spiraling into the Maw. 

She glanced at Renathal’s face and was not surprised to see the look of cold remembrance he wore. So different he looked, so grave and forlorn…

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

Renathal sighed, but this time he couldn’t find the words to explain himself. Astarys sat down on the bench and gently tugged his hand until he lowered himself down next to her. Without word from either of them, their arms wrapped around one another’s waists.

“This is not where I expected us to end up,” Renathal murmured, his eyes still fixed on the red spirals of anima that drained out from the bowels of the castle and into the great beyond.

“Us?”

“Or any of the Venthyr.”

“I would take this sorrow from you if I could. It pains me to see you bear it, day after day.”

Renathal grunted. “Is it so obvious?”

“Not to just anyone,” Astarys answered. “Perhaps only those who form unhealthy attachments to their new leaders and spend a lot of time staring at them from a distance.”

This seemed to bring the Prince back to himself, and he turned to look down at his elven companion with the start of a grin on his face. “I believe it’s only unhealthy if it goes unspoken for too long. Or causes you to do something foolish or dangerous.”

“It’s very unlike me to do anything foolish.”

“Yes, you seem the cautious type.”

“Though I have put myself in more danger since entering your service than I care to admit…”

Renathal laughed. “Touché. And you accepted my invitation on top of it all.”

Astarys lifted her head, looking at him through disbelieving, half-lidded eyes. “Are you telling me you’re dangerous?”

Somehow their faces had grown closer. She could feel his breath on her cheek and he could take in the scent of her, lavender and fresh-pressed clothes and wine, and it was taking all his willpower to hold himself in check.

That little flame, Renathal thought, had grown so quickly to a bonfire.

“Oh yes,” he murmured, so low it was almost a whisper and Asta had to close her eyes as a shiver overtook her. “I’m very dangerous.”

The corners of her lips turned up in a smile. “Prove it.”

It was not so much a kiss as it was a crashing together of their pent-up emotions; if it were akin to a wave, then it was of the tidal variety. It swept over them both and left them gasping, only to pull them down again and threaten to lose them in the depths of their need. Where words had been forced to stop, hands and lips and tongues made up for the silence with a language all their own.

Renathal had no need to breathe but Astarys did, and after several minutes she broke free of him to press her face against his neck and take several shaky gasps of air. With the absence of her lips, the Prince raised one of her hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, then her palm, then her fingers, with the ardor of one who has been denied the pleasures of touch for far too long.

“Astarys,” he murmured, and she couldn’t draw back to look at him, but could only raise her head to lock her mouth against his once more.

At last, when their hunger for one another had reached some sort of accord, they managed to draw apart to gaze at one another without succumbing to their lust and both of them began to laugh.

Moving in to brush his lips against her ear, Renathal’s voice was dark and secretive. “I’ve a room here. We could…”

“You’re the Prince. I…”

“Not tonight. Remember?”

Astarys smiled.


	7. Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (shameless smut goes here)

The tension between them was palpable as they made their way back to the Tower’s main courtyard and then up the steps arm-in-arm. Only two stoneborn sentries were present to see them enter Revelav proper, and they seemed stoic and uninterested in the couple’s passing. Renathal led Astarys into a hallway that opened up into a bare room with a familiar red mirror waiting for them on the far side.

He turned to her just long enough to dip his head toward hers, his lips brushing against her cheek as he murmured. “Will you give me but a moment to set the mood?”

Astarys felt a stab of some delicious urgency in her belly, made all the sharper by his voice once again so close to her ear; but she held herself back as best she could and nodded.

Renathal gave a little growl of acknowledgement before he forced himself to part from her and stepped through the mirror. Its anima-tinged surface shimmered like water behind him.

Asta didn’t want to pace, but the energy within her and between them was so great that she almost couldn’t help herself. She turned in slow steps as she tried to calm her fluttering heart. 

_“Do you think this is too soon?”_ she asked herself.

No. Yes, but no. 

_“Do less thinking,”_ she admonished.

After another moment, Renathal reappeared; he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips as he began to draw her back with him, stepping through the mirror and into…

The room was somehow exactly as she had envisioned it, yet amplified even beyond her imaginings. It was a simple room really, with the usual Venthyr carpets and tapestries, but the candles… they were everywhere. Both sides of the room blazed with red and black candles perched on almost every surface, and their dancing light reached halfway across the room’s expanse before leaving the perfect dim tendrils of shadow across the large canopy bed. It could’ve been a scene taken straight from her favorite dark romance novels, and Astarys’ knees felt weak as she soaked it all in.

“I hope it is to your liking,” Renathal whispered, and he had moved behind her just enough to dip his face toward her neck and press his lips to her skin. Asta could only give a little mew of acquiescence in response.

As delightful as that felt, she needed more to feel his lips on hers again and she turned abruptly to press herself against him, her hands going up to tangle in his long hair as they lost themselves in the passion of their kiss.

“It’s perfect,” Astarys managed as she pulled away long enough to breathe. “Everything’s perfect.”

“I am glad you find it pleasing,” Renathal hummed. In a smooth motion he scooped Astarys up, bringing a little cry of surprise from her, and the devilish smile on his face remained as he carried her to the edge of the bed and laid her gently down. “What else would my new friend like?”

“Some help getting free of this corset, perhaps.”

He grinned, and with another easy motion he helped her to sit up as he slid himself around her. Already his deft fingers were tugging at the tight strings along either side of her corset.

Suddenly Renathal sighed and he seemed to compose himself, his hands encircling Astarys’ waist and his face pressing against the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

The elf felt the change and turned just enough to reach for him. “Renathal…”

Was he having second thoughts?

But no. When he raised his eyes to look at her, she saw such raw emotion there that it almost frightened her. 

“It’s been so long,” he whispered. “Let’s go slow.”

The honesty of it made her heart ache.

“Yes.”

They took turns removing pieces of armor from him, and bits of fancy regalia from her. Each piece was discarded to the floor with a certain amount of reverence, and replaced on their bodies with exploring fingers and lips. When at last all that remained between them was the barest of cloth, Renathal drew her to him and held her tightly, his hands sliding beyond the edges of her chemise to touch and explore the contours of her back.

The feeling of her skin shivering beneath his fingers nearly broke him. 

There was less restraint in how they removed those final layers from one another. Though he was quick to pull Asta back to him, bare skin pressing to bare skin and each of them helpless to control the sounds of need that rose between them.

“You feel -- so good -- so warm… I can’t...” Renathal’s voice was almost a tone of agony, as if all the sensations of her nearness were too much for him to process. Astarys was struck with a sudden thought: had he experienced this with a living mortal before? It seemed unlikely, and it might explain his sudden rise of emotions. Gently she ran her hands along his back and then around to his chest, drawing back just enough to look at him.

“You can. Or we can stop. But I want you, Renathal… whatever you wish to give…”

“If you could read my greedy heart, you might reconsider.”

Asta gave a little scoff. “We mortals are unmatched when it comes to sin, my Lord.”

This caused him to smile again, and Astarys cupped his face in her hands and kissed his lips.

He seemed to find himself again and with a little growl of want, Renathal lifted her thighs and tipped her over onto her back. He pressed himself to her and Asta felt his thick length slide between them, leaving a trail of precum on her belly. She couldn’t hold back her cry of need as Renathal leaned down once more to catch her mouth roughly with his own.

His hips drew back and he ground against her stomach and then against her leg, breaking their kiss to drag his lips down to her neck and lower still. Sharp teeth raked against her collarbone and his warm tongue left a trail across the swell of one breast, ending its exploration against her hardened nipple. Astarys gasped. Any faint reservations that may have lingered in her mind spun off into oblivion.

Renathal growled again as he sucked and nipped, clearly enjoying the reactions he was able to coax from her. He cupped her other breast with one hand, squeezing gently before he switched his attentions; it wasn’t long that he could keep this going, as every arch of her back and twist of her body presented to him a struggle. How he wanted to catch her hands, roll her hips up, claim her as his own…

But no -- Renathal managed more patience. His hands sought the curves of her hips as he pulled himself down farther still, his tongue laving another path from her breasts over the smooth plane of her stomach. He raised one slender thigh to receive his ministrations next. As he lowered his mouth down to the crevice where her leg met her hip, Astarys drew a sharp breath; he could feel her muscles quivering beneath his fingers as he drew the pad of his thumb against her softest folds…

 _“Renathal,”_ his lover pleaded, and thoughts fled from his mind as raw instinct took over. He lowered his tongue to trace the edges of her cleft and nearly gasped at the sweet, heady taste of her. He drew her gently open with his thumbs and his tongue worked in deep, alternating between gentle thrusts and long swipes to lap up every bit of her nectar.

She’d almost come completely undone beneath him, but somehow she held herself from the edge -- though her hands clasped tight against the blankets and her breath was coming quick.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer,” Astarys said, half a plea and half a moan.

“Nor can I.” His voice was deep, almost menacing with its raw need, but it inspired no fear in her.

As he moved himself into position, one of her hands glided down to slide against his length, bringing him toward her at just the right angle. The head of his erection rubbed against her wetness and Renathal groaned.

He caught her lips against his own as he slid forward into her tight warmth, and almost immediately their kiss had to be broken as they both keened in pleasure.

Renathal was large and Asta writhed in satisfaction as she felt him stretching her, filling her completely, driving himself in one deep stroke until she had taken all of what he had to give. _“Ahh-hhaaa,_ gods,” she moaned.

“Good?” he whispered. Even then attentive and concerned with her well-being.

“So good.”

“Yes,” Renathal agreed, and he drew his hips back just enough to begin to move within her.

At first it was slow as their bodies grew used to one another, to the way they moved against and together in that sweet sort of uncertainty that only a first time can bring. Inevitably, Astarys found herself clinging to him with both arms and legs wrapped around him, her nails biting his skin and her hips moving to match his thrusts as Renathal found it more and more difficult to hold back.

Too soon he was driving into her with long, needy strokes that brought gasps and unguarded cries of satisfaction from them both.

Renathal buried his face against her neck as he felt himself reach the precipice --

\-- Astarys’ hands clenched against his back and her hips ground against his, bucking as she cried his name, and Renathal lost control and spilled deep within her.

Panting and groaning, they lay completely tangled against one another until the aftershocks of their climaxes had begun to abate. Even then, neither seemed interested in seeing to their parting.

Finally Renathal lifted his head just enough to peer down at her. Astarys returned his gaze with a look of open, unabashed adoration.

“Stay with me tonight?” he murmured.

“As long as you want,” she answered.

“Maybe tomorrow, too?”

“Don’t you have to be the Prince then?”

She grinned, and Renathal laughed quietly.

“Royalty doesn’t get days off, unfortunately… but… I suppose that’s why we formed a Council, after all.”

“Mm, very wise, your Highness.”

Renathal gave a little snort of derision, which only caused Asta to wiggle beneath him and laugh.

\-----------

Neither of them had much interest in sleeping.

They did have plenty of interest in finding new ways to enjoy each other's company, however.


	8. Parting

Renathal had staved off the Council’s worries with a quick fiend-delivered letter -- _“Seeing to some personal business, back in two days ~ R.”_ \-- after sneaking a look at which, Astarys teased him endlessly about being his ‘personal business.’

“Wicked creature, did you want to watch me squirm as I explain where I’ve been to the Accuser?”

Astarys laughed, coming up behind him to wrap her arms around his shoulders and press kisses against his neck. “I would not want to see her end you, no.”

“I doubt it would be so dramatic… but I’d prefer to give them no reason to question my dedication to our cause.”

Astarys knew well what he meant, but there was still an almost-uncomfortable silence that passed between them. The elf rested her head in the crook of Renathal’s shoulder and waited until he continued.

“I wish I could say that things will be exactly like this when we return…”

“I know they can’t,” Astarys said quickly. “I knew that from the start.”

Renathal felt a stab of anger. He was the Prince; surely he could make his own decisions about what company he kept. But their alliances, both within Revendreth and across the Shadowlands, were all still so tenuous. If he displayed an apparent allegiance to mortals above his own kind…

...well, he didn’t know what might happen. But another rebellion was the last thing any of them needed.

The Prince sighed, reaching up with one hand to wrap his fingers around Astarys’. “Thank you for understanding.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you for replying to my poem. ...I meant everything I wrote. I don’t own you, Renathal. And even if we never see each other like this again --”

Renathal was quick to stand, and it caught Astarys off guard long enough for him to pick her up and carry her back to the bed.

“Who said we could never do this again, hmm?”

Asta felt a pleasant jolt of warm lust run all the way down her back as the Prince lowered her to the blankets, his deep voice already close enough to her ear that it caused her skin to prickle. “Will you write me more poems?” he asked.

“I’m afraid you’ll never be rid of them,” she murmured, smiling. “In fact, you could provide me with some inspiration right now.” 

“How I toil for your art,” Renathal mused, and he lost himself in kissing her.

\---------

A few days later, Astarys was dressing for the Ember Court.

She still had a long way to go to learn how to properly fit herself into her Venthyr corset, but she was making steady improvements. As she twisted herself around to fasten a particularly stubborn tie, she caught a glimpse of herself in her desk mirror and took note of the fading pink bite mark, usually hidden by her chemise, but now peeking out as if to remind her of memories not so long past.

Asta felt a little stab of yearning and warmth -- not unpleasant really, it was still so easy to imagine how his hands felt against her body and how his lips tasted as they parted her own…

She sighed into the bittersweet sensation. Then she straightened. She wouldn’t miss the Court… couldn’t pass on an opportunity to watch him in his element, so poised and perfect… and who knows. They might sneak in a quiet conversation, or perhaps even something more.

A soft sound caught her ear. Something moving near her doorway, she heard a shadowed footstep…

...and from the corner of her eye, saw the flash of a white envelope sliding across her floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read all this, you have my most sincere appreciation and condolences. ;)  
> If you enjoyed it at all, I would adore it if you left me a comment. My existence is based entirely on praise.  
> I'm considering exploring the old (and possibly new again) relationship between Renathal and Theotar in my next fic. <3


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